The cigarette I had been desperately sucking slipped from my hand onto the mat while I tried to get my head around her instructions. I was unaware of the damage it was causing until Ilaria picked it up and rubbed the burn mark with the toe of her shoe. ‘Sorry,’ I said, taking the smouldering butt from her and discarding it in the ashtray. ‘I’m going to miss you.’ I flung my arms around her, rocked from side to side. ‘Come with us. Think about it.’
‘I can’t leave Richard.’
She was faithful even to his dead body. I released her, edged away. ‘Am I wrong to leave my husband?’
‘He will follow if he chooses.’
47
I woke before dawn. Ben was dressed and standing beside our bed looking at me, a practice he’d adopted on our honeymoon. ‘To hold you in here,’ he used to say, shaping his hands into a heart. He was making the same configuration as I emerged from a tangle of sheets. ‘Stay put, Julia. You tossed and turned all night.’ His concern sounded genuine. I went to sit up. ‘Rest,’ he said, pushing me gently back down. ‘Rosa can see to breakfast.’
He hadn’t been this thoughtful for ages. It confused me.
I thought of calling him back as he turned to leave the room and, if he responded with kindness, suggest we work on mending the rift between us, but then Ernesto’s voice boomed out, ‘Little brother, get down here!’ He sounded excited, in command.
Ben’s footsteps faltered on the landing. I held my breath. Had Ernesto changed his plans? As Ben set off again, I threw on yesterday’s skirt and blouse and rushed to the kitchen. Matteo was at the table waiting for Rosa to put out bread rolls with jam. The shoelaces in his sneakers were undone. He was rubbing sleep from his eyes.
‘Good morning, Julia,’ Ernesto said. ‘We’re celebrating.’ He thumped Matteo on the back. ‘Your son is coming to Sorrento with me. All the Moretti men together.’ He nudged a cup towards Rosa, who fetched the coffeepot.
The savage thudding of my heart threatened to fell me. In the steadiest voice I could muster, I said, ‘Mattie, it’s ages since you’ve been to the market with Frannie and me. Afterwards we can drop in to the model shop and see Roberto. Take him some pancakes.’ I was rambling, frantic. ‘Or go to a clothing shop. You could choose a new pair of shorts and a shirt.’
Ernesto thrust an arm along the ridge of Matteo’s chair. ‘Good try, Julia, but he’s coming with Benito, Carlo and me.’ He chucked Matteo on the chin. ‘Right, lad?’
‘Yes, Uncle Ernesto,’ Matteo said, lowering his head. At which point Ernesto bounded to his feet, blocking the line of sight between Matteo and me.
‘Ben,’ I said, ‘Ernesto’s photographs aren’t suitable for Mattie’s young eyes.’
‘Art depicts life,’ Ernesto said.
Ben ran the last piece of bread on his plate through a puddle of jam.
Pumped with panic I said forcefully, ‘He’s not going to Sorrento.’
Ben laid down his fork and stood up. ‘He’ll be fine with me.’ He skimmed his lips across my forehead and left the room.
I was wavering between going after him and begging him to side with me or pleading with Matteo to reconsider when the legs of his chair scraped across the flagstones. He was leaving the table, looking uncared for; bordering on wild. ‘Don’t go with the men, Mattie. Stay with Francesca and me. Please, son.’
Rosa put the coffeepot on the table as Matteo crossed the room. She planted a hand between his shoulder blades and pushed him towards me. ‘Kiss Mamma goodbye, Matteo.’
Ernesto cracked his knuckles as Matteo’s lips alighted briefly on my cheek. ‘See you soon, Mamma,’ he said and headed for the entrance hall.
I wanted to hug him, never let him go. ‘Mattie! Mattie!’ I chased after him.
He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’m staying with Papa. He needs me.’
Ben was waiting on the steps, clicking his fingers.
Ernesto brushed against me and quietly sneered, ‘Lunatic.’ Lunatico. On the steps, he flung his arm around Matteo’s shoulder and said something that made him laugh. The blue shirt I’d bought my son to wear on the flight home, not to Ernesto’s exhibition, shimmered in the sunlight.
Matteo slid into the front seat of his uncle’s car. He didn’t wave to me. Nor did Ben or Carlo, seated in the rear. The Fiat roared off, kicking up helices of grey dust.
Somehow I made it to the kitchen. Through the window I glimpsed Rosa pegging towels on the line, sticking to her routine. She would break for coffee shortly. As predicted, she had stowed Alessia’s surplus medication on a shelf in the scullery: I patted the pills hidden overnight in my pillowcase and transferred this morning to my skirt pocket. Although Ilaria and I had rehearsed our plan, we hadn’t factored in this latest development. It was unthinkable to leave without Matteo. I needed to wait for another chance. But what if in the interim something catastrophic happened to Francesca? I couldn’t live with the consequences. She was upstairs asleep, free of Ernesto today — but tomorrow, the day after?
There was no choice. I had to get her away from him. Matteo could follow on another flight. If Ben refused to organise it, I’d borrow the money from Oliver, purchase a ticket from my end and send it through the post to Ilaria.
Convinced this was a viable solution, I stacked the breakfast dishes in the sink, turned on the taps and took another glance outside. Sheets ballooned on the line. Rosa was stretching her spine. The sky was the bluest of blues, the sun a platter of polished copper. No clouds.
I made a fresh brew of coffee and filled the two cups I had on the bench. Trancelike, I ground the pills with a pestle and mortar into a fine powder and tipped it into Rosa’s cup, stirring briskly to leave no trace. As Ilaria had suggested, I scrubbed the utensils in soapy water, dried and returned them to their usual positions.
When Rosa came in, I gestured towards the table. ‘I’ve poured yours.’
‘Thank you. I drink before the lion sun it gets high.’
We’d had warmer than usual temperature for late autumn, dropping only marginally at night. Francesca was bound to wake up out of sorts. ‘I’ll wash the dishes, Rosa,’ I said, not wanting to watch the drugs take effect.
I dug my fingertips into the puffy flesh around Rosa’s ankles and dragged her into the scullery. Not wanting to leave her unprotected, I tucked into her hand the St Christopher figurine Alessia had given me. ‘Forgive me, Rosa,’ I whispered. ‘Please take care of Matteo until he comes to me. Ben, too.’ Then I closed the door and slid the latch into place, not knowing if I had it in me to tackle what had to be done next.
‘Mamma,’ Francesca shouted from the landing, ‘where are you?’
‘Down here,’ I called as I set a dish upright in the draining board.
She flounced in wearing a pair of pink baby-doll pyjamas I hadn’t seen before. ‘When did Papa buy you those?’ Her thumb edged closer to her mouth. I knocked it away. ‘You’re not a baby!’ But she is, I thought, she is. ‘Well?’
‘Uncle Ernesto gave them to me last night to make up for missing out on his exhibition.’ Her bottom lip trembled. ‘Should I not have put them on?’
‘Did he come into your bedroom?’
She dipped her head. I hadn’t heard the bell. Had he tampered with it, with her?
What kind of mother could get cold feet now?
I checked my wristwatch. It was 8.10 a.m. Ilaria was almost due.
I stroked Francesca’s hair and kissed the top of her head. ‘Run upstairs and put on whatever you like. I have a surprise.’
She tilted her head upwards. ‘What?’
‘Wait and see.’
While she dressed, I scribbled another sentence at the bottom of a note I’d written to Ben and tucked it into the pocket of his best jacket. Only he would think of looking there. I took the dress I’d ironed from its hanger and slipped it on. Then I retrieved the three passports from inside my pillowcase, thinking Ilaria could hold on to Matteo’s for safekeeping until we arranged for her to pick him up from school a
nd drive him to Rome airport. If necessary, I’d sneak back into the country and accompany him home. On impulse, I took from a frame a photograph a beachgoer had taken of us at Positano and slipped it into my handbag. We looked happy, an ordinary family.
48
New Zealand, 1994
It’s 7.00 a.m., the seventh day since surgery. I’m standing at the bottom of Matteo’s hospital bed, hands on the footboard, mapping the ridges beneath the covers that delineate muscle and bone, reconciling this manly body with the build of the boy I left behind. His cheek muscle twitches, twice in quick succession. When he wakes, he will blame me for abandoning him. Can I get him to understand I had no choice?
At the motel last night, I dreamed he was a father. I woke thinking that if this were the case, experience might have taught him, as it has me, that doing right by our children is harder than we anticipate.
Yesterday the ward sister said that the registrar would remove Matteo’s breathing tube this morning. If this procedure goes to plan, in a day or two the neurosurgeon will start to reduce the sedating medication and my son will rise slowly from the fog. In the meantime, I flit between anxiety and optimism.
A cleaner I haven’t seen before comes in to wash the floor. She has a long face, an oversized nose and sagging jowls. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that she has a bloodhound for a pet. Stationed in the doorway I watch her swish a mop across the floor. A piece of gauze is stuck to the lower side of her shoe. I should point it out, but instead I brood about the unreliable territory of memory or, as I see it, those half-forgotten fragments we recast over time to make them more palatable and easier to live with. Matteo will have done the same.
It might be better at the start for us to talk about uncomplicated matters. Whether he took up screenwriting when his football career ended, an idea that came to me last night when I thought of how as a child he wrote and performed plays featuring Felix the cartoon cat. His capacity to empathise would make him a suitable candidate for an occupation that values the ability to flesh out and inhabit different characters. Maybe he drew on these attributes for purposes as yet unknown to me. But I don’t think he studied law like his grandfather. Surely I would have heard.
Thirty-six hours pass. The breathing tube is out, a reduction in sedating medication underway. On his morning round, unaware of the shock awaiting Matteo when he wakes and sees me at his bedside, the neurosurgeon did his best to reassure me. ‘Everything’s proceeding to plan.’
He drops by again mid-afternoon. ‘Doctor,’ I say, ‘is there anything I can do to help ease Matteo into consciousness?’
‘In my experience the familiar vibrations of a loved one’s voice can have a positive impact on a patient.’
Rather than admit that my son may not think of me in these terms, I ask what I should talk about.
‘Whatever you think he wants to hear, Mrs Moretti.’ He adjusts his glasses. ‘Stories have the potential to rewire the brain.’
I doubt he’s suggesting I reshape the truth into something more acceptable. Matteo and I are the only people in this hospital, this city, this country, who know what happened over three decades ago.
My thoughts are moving offshore when Matteo’s arm jerks. I lurch forward, convinced something significant is happening. ‘An involuntary spasm,’ says the neurosurgeon.
But I believe my son is sending me a message. In my mind, I vow to speak honestly, explain my emotional state around the time of my departure, apologise for the hurt and confusion I caused him. Aloud I say, ‘I’ll begin with a happy childhood memory.’
‘Perfect,’ says the neurosurgeon, and he lays a hand for a brief moment on my shoulder. I miss the physical touch of a man. For years, I resorted to casual encounters with tourists passing through Queenstown.
As the surgeon’s footsteps echo down the corridor, I dip again into a well of memories and talk to my son aloud in Italian. ‘Matteo, picture our house in London.’ I pause to allow his recollection of it to form. ‘Walk up the path, open the front door, take off your jacket and hang it on a peg in the passage. Go into the front room, open a window, watch the breeze ruffle the curtains. Study the dappled light, the expanse of wafer-thin cloud. Smell the heady scent of azaleas and rhododendrons.’ I watch for a flicker of understanding. There is nothing. My voice quivers as I continue. ‘Put on a record. Think of Oliver picking up Francesca and dancing her through the French doors onto the lawn, you and me following, wiggling our hips. And your Papa coming out, jiving with a broom. Hear our laughter. Watch Papa swap the broom for me. Remember, Matteo?’ I hesitate, then carry on. ‘Chase us as we whirl across the lawn, kick off our shoes, shake our heads, embrace under the magnolia tree.’
My voice wavers with emotion. Sadness for what we lost. Rapture for what we once knew. There’s another feeling, too — gratitude for the here and now.
‘Most lives contain blissful instances like those, Matteo. They drive us to seek seamless happiness. We never can. It’s an illusion. The best we can do is learn to appreciate small pleasures: a walk in a forest, the beauty of a flower in bud, a meal cooked with love, time spent with family and friends.’
The cleaner is back. Finding me in full swing, she says, ‘Sorry for the intrusion, Mrs Moretti. I forgot the cloth I used on the sills.’
‘The doctor told me to talk to him,’ I say in embarrassed English.
Her expression changes from apologetic to sympathetic. ‘I’m sure your son is listening.’
49
Italy, 1962
Ilaria had her car idling at the curb. As Francesca and I came into view she wound down her window. ‘Hello, Julia. Good morning, Francesca.’ Head angled to check behind us, she said, ‘Where’s Matteo?’
‘He went to Sorrento with Papa and Uncle Ernesto and Carlo,’ Francesca said. ‘They wouldn’t take me because I’m a girl. It’s not fair. Boys go everywhere. Girls never do.’
‘We’ll have our own adventure,’ Ilaria said, casting a quizzical look at me. ‘Right, Julia?’
‘Yes,’ I said with a downcast dip of my head. ‘We have no choice.’
I settled Francesca into the back seat and got in the front, ignoring a question Ilaria mouthed. I didn’t want to confound Francesca. As it was, she was leaning over twisting the corners of my silk scarf into tight ringlets. ‘So we’re going ahead?’ Ilaria said out loud.
Not trusting myself to speak, I nodded half-heartedly.
For the first leg of the journey Ilaria drove like the rest of the maniacs, tooting the horn and shaking her fist at motorists who hogged the road. When she wasn’t navigating through chaos, she taught Francesca a funny song, freeing me to invent departure schemes for Matteo. I considered holing up in Rome and waiting for him there. I thought of phoning the gallery and asking to speak to him. I toyed with bribery and kidnapping. Ignoring the fact that he was too young to have a licence, I fantasised about him borrowing a car and catching up with us. All of it fanciful thinking, as he wouldn’t leave without talking to his papa. Nor would he easily give up his hard-won place in next season’s regional football team. As the miles clocked by, I realised I had no option but to wait for Ben to complete the work Ernesto had pressured him into taking on. If afterwards he couldn’t or wouldn’t join us, surely he’d send Matteo home to me.
In the midst of these introspective meanderings I nearly asked Ilaria to return to the villa, thinking I could keep Francesca safe while we waited for another opportunity to flee. Then I remembered what I had done to Rosa. Any niggling doubts I had about my decision evaporated as I pictured Ernesto using my drugging Rosa as a reason to dispatch me to Bianchi, the mental institution, and convincing the doctors and Ben that I needed electric-shock treatment to straighten out my thinking. No, postponing our departure was too precarious. Everything would work out. Matteo would follow soon. I had to be patient. And resourceful, because what little money I had scraped together wouldn’t last long.
Bored with singing, Francesca took a nap this side of Frosinone, givi
ng Ilaria and me a chance to talk. Nevertheless, we slipped into semi-code to reduce the chance of two small ears tuning in. ‘Take this one the whole way, Julia. I’ll dispatch the other parcel.’
‘It’s risky.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
Francesca stirred and stretched out along the back seat.
‘None of this would be possible without you,’ I said. ‘I’m so grateful.’
Ilaria drove into the new Fiumicino airport southwest of Rome. As a precaution, she didn’t come into the terminal. If Ernesto’s network extended this far north, someone might recognise us and relay the news. Wide-awake now, Francesca was full of questions. Ilaria and I hugged in the drop-off area, agreed to phone weekly and to catch up in person when the missing package was ready to follow.
Inside the terminal I was flooded with relief, bordering on euphoria. Francesca and I were almost safe. I checked us in without issue. Passports and boarding passes in hand I headed in the direction of the passenger lounge, making light of Francesca’s continuous complaints. ‘Shush, Frannie, Papa and Matteo will come on another plane.’
While we queued for security checks I happened to look over my shoulder. Off to the side in the visitors’ area I caught sight of the pipe-smoker watching our progress. His eyes locked on mine. He tipped the brim of his blue straw fedora and winked like a cat that had got the cream. I didn’t understand why he looked pleased. Had he been on my side all along? Was he working for Ben, not Ernesto? If it weren’t for an exasperated traveller behind us pushing Francesca and me forward, I might have dashed over and asked him.
I had a nervous wait in the departure lounge: Francesca pulling on my dress, asking questions, giving me the stare. ‘We’re going somewhere special,’ I said to pacify her.
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